


Quiet

by SongofmyLife



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongofmyLife/pseuds/SongofmyLife
Summary: Lestrade knew that his association with the Holmeses would cause him trouble sooner or later.Prompt 86
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51
Collections: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions





	Quiet

Lestrade knew that sooner or later his association with the Holmeses would bring him more trouble than he could handle.  
  
Sure, his life had had plenty of trouble before meeting a young drug addled Sherlock. But, at some point between that meeting, his being kidnapped by Mycroft, and then his quickly rise to detective inspector, Gregory Lestrade realized that this association would have a cost.  
  
He'd been able to handle it fine so far. A "drugs bust" here, a moment of temporary deafness there, a small lie, a quick run, a few rules at a time Greg had managed the problems. And whenever things got the most exasperating with Sherlock, there was always Mycroft.  
  
After being kidnapped and driven around in a conspicuously inconspicuous black car for the third time in less than a month Lestrade had managed to convince Mycroft that he could just call and have him come at anytime instead. It was a good change and with time, and his divorce, Lestrade found himself spending some quiet evenings at Mycroft's club, sometimes without discussing Sherlock at all.  
  
At first there was a pretext. "Diogenes. 8PM. Fletcher case. - MH." At first, Sherlock's involvement in cases was always discussed immediately. But the meetings always seemed to come on the nights Lestrade was most reluctant about going home to his empty and depressing flat all alone. And as the constant requests to stay for supper continued to seem genuine, he couldn't help but stay. Just the once, just for tonight, if you insist. The need to leave began to soften, and Greg found himself visiting, for they had become visits and not mere meetings, longer and longer. Until yawns danced in his mouth and sleep pressed upon his eyes as he took his leave.  
  
His host never seemed to tire. Mycroft was always calm, but alert. He was quietly witty on every topic. Greg found himself reading the weekend newspapers with care, finding articles and events that he might discuss with Mycroft should he call that week. He found himself longing for the visits. He wanted to make his eyes twinkle from across the small wooden table that separated the two comfortable high backed chairs. The week hardly seemed complete without a visit to the Diogenes club, and a quiet dinner with the man who had quietly and secretly slipped into his heart.  
  
The change in heart had come so slowly and quietly, Greg had never noticed until the third month without a visit began. Greg longed for the sophisticated quiet, and the indistinguishable face he had come to be able to decipher. He missed the soft discussions, the reading looks, the gentle teasing. He missed Mycroft. Terribly.  
  
It was another three weeks before Greg's new found affection was discovered. Three weeks before Sherlock Holmes deemed a case something above a six. The first thing he said upon arriving at the scene was "Really, must you detective? My brother? Terrible taste!"  
  
Greg was once again struck by the differences between the brothers. Where Mycroft exuded control of everything around him through his calm commanding manner, Sherlock was loud, brash, almost hast. Though certainly he caused effects on all the people around him also. Mycroft could let a silence sit with his will, either to cause displeasure and disease, or to comfort with a calm certainty. Sherlock was always moving, while Mycroft could sit like a statue, with only the vivid light behind his eyes showing you the shrewdness beneath. When he spoke, Mycroft would hardly move his mouth more than necessary, his lips moving precisely where needed and back again to their soft neutral place.  
  
But both held an affection for the other buried secretly. " He'll be returning tomorrow inspector," Sherlock shouted as he left, after solving the case in less than an hour and declaring the whole thing a waste of time. "It's not too late to change your mind"  
  
Tomorrow. Greg spent the rest of the day filling in paperwork for the case and worrying about tomorrow. Would Mycroft notice? Of course he would, he's a Holmes. How will he respond? Will he even mention it at all? Often when they had first met Mycroft would refrain from commenting on the clear ways in which Greg was broken. Would he just see this as another stretch of a broken man? There was no way he could ever accept him. He was perfectly put together. With a put together job, and a put together house. He'd never even let Greg visit his house, just met him at his club. He might be ashamed of him. He might laugh at him. He might never want to see him again.  
  
All the thoughts were swirling around his head. The night went on, and he went home, but the thoughts followed him like hammers pounding in his head. Loud, annoying, and Greg needed quiet.  
He went, as he had before, to walk by the Diogenes. He couldn't go in. Wouldn't want to go in alone anyway. But he needed the quiet. And just a simple walk, to stand there a second, to be near the place where Mycroft was so often, could give him a moment of rest.  
  
A quick tube ride and he was there. On a quieter street. It was late. London was asleep. The thoughts were quieter now. Greg breathed in the sweet smells from the club garden on the other side of the fence. They brought an instant calm. He had smelled this garden before. Every time he came to visit Mycroft this scent would help him cast off his stresses.  
  
All would be well. Yes, Mycroft would find out his feelings which had only grown since their discovery, but there was no reason their quiet friendship would need to change. Greg was a man in control of his own life, his own heart. Mycroft might even admire the dedication to his own self control.  
  
Who was he kidding, Greg would never be able to change his heart by thought. He walked away. In his mind he had reviewed every meeting, every visit, every supper, every moment he could remember of their whole acquaintance. And every memory thrust him further in love. Every image he conjured up, Mycroft in the afternoon half sunshine, Mycroft in the evening shadows, Mycroft sipping tea, Mycroft eating a piece of cake,Mycroft laughing at his attempt at a joke, Mycroft speaking with a commanding voice to his assistant, Mycroft sitting in silence, the first glimpse of the mysterious Mycroft who'd kidnapped him almost 10 years ago, only made him want Mycroft the more.  
  
Greg kept walking. He was halfway home now. He might as well walk the rest. Mycroft might call him first thing in the morning already. How long would it take after that for everything to change between them?  
  
A black car slowed beside him as he walked. Already? Was Mycroft back already? How had he known Greg was here? Maybe someone at Diogenes had reported him to Mycroft? Greg looked at the nearest lamp post. The CCTV camera was pointed straight at him. Greg chuckled under his breath. How often had he been followed by cameras these last years.  
  
A man came out of the car. Lestrade just got a glimpse of the knife before it was too late. "Tell the Iceman, we won't let him use us again." Lestrade thought he was okay at hand to hand, but tired, without his stab vest, and caught unawares, he quickly found himself with a huge gash in his stomach, bleeding on the sidewalk.  
  
The pain burned through him. The blood seeped between his fingers and pooled on the ground. Light shone in his eyes. The lamppost was directly above him. He looked up at the light, at the camera, at the one person he wanted most to see.  
  
"Mycroft?" he gasped struggling for breath.  
  
"Mycroft, Please. I wish I could see you. I wish I could tell you..."  
  
He coughed and the pain took him again by surprise.  
  
"Mycroft, I love you. I love you, more than I ever thought I could love. I love you slowly, and I love you deeply."  
  
He had to be going into shock. He was stammering but couldn't stop talking if he wanted to.  
  
Not that he did. If this was his last chance to speak, Mycroft deserved the truth.  
  
"I love every moment we are together. I miss every minute we are apart. You are amazing... I love you."  
  
His eyes fluttered closed, the light was bright.  
  
"Please..."  
  
Where was Mycroft? Mycroft should be here.  
  
"Mycroft, I n'd t'tell you..."  
  
He tried to lift his hand, to reach to where Mycroft was seated across the small wooden table.  
  
"I... Mycroft... I lov"


End file.
